


Catching The Seeker

by earlgreyhot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cold Weather, F/M, Height Differences, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kissing, Kissing in the Rain, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Snogging, Ties & Cravats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreyhot/pseuds/earlgreyhot
Summary: Hermione had hoped to spend Saturday completing her beloved routine: studying in the library for her N.E.W.T.s. But eighth year had brought Parvati and her closer together. So instead of being warm and safe with her books, she was freezing her bum off as Slytherin and Hufflepuff fought a proverbial war on the Quidditch pitch. And she was definitelynotadmiring Draco Malfoy in that soaked uniform.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 33
Kudos: 392
Collections: Quidditch Stories





	Catching The Seeker

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas, [hslades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hslades/pseuds/hslades) and [peachpety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety). ♥

Hermione watched Zacharias Smith as he swan dove with the Quaffle and evaded not one but two Bludgers aimed at his head. 

Luna Lovegood’s dreamy voice rang from the commentary box. “Hufflepuff Chaser Zacharias Smith has thrown the Quaffle. It’s soaring... and in the hoop... That’s ten points to Hufflepuff.” 

Beside Hermione, Parvati jumped to her feet. “YES!” she cried. All the rainwater on her cloak splashed Hermione’s face. 

Hermione wiped droplets off her cheek and clutched her robe’s enchanted, water-resistant hood tighter around her head. Her frizzy, weather beaten hair stretched the hood to its limit and prevented it from keeping out the cold and rain and wind. Hermione fought against a trickling shiver. 

Spinning to Hermione, Parvati sighed and pressed clasped hands to her cheek. “He’s so dreamy, isn’t he?” Her softening eyes alluded to more ludicrous prattles on the tip of her tongue. 

Battling to not roll her eyes, Hermione solely replied to deter any elaboration. “He’s proper dreamy.” 

Parvati returned to happily gaze at her precious Zacharias Smith. 

Hermione wished that earlier that afternoon she’d strode past Parvati in the Gryffindor common room and left her there. She had seven N.E.W.T.s to earn and only ten months to study, but Parvati always sat alone in an armchair, surrounded by nothing. No books, no parchment, no friends. She often had gossip and boys and fashion in her brain, which Hermione found an unfathomable waste of time. Lavender had adored the frivolity, but Lavender was dead, and so Parvati observed the flames die to embers in the fireplace of the common room. Hermione couldn’t just walk past Parvati day after day, knowing her best friend had been gruesomely murdered, and let whatever thoughts which brewed in Parvati’s mind to fester. If that meant listening to Parvati swoon and scream at how Zacharias Smith’s Quidditch uniform accentuated his fit bum, certainly Hermione could bear it. She’d endured worst that year. 

Besides, Hermione wasn’t naive. She had never understood Quidditch, but she understood the appeal of fit Quidditch boys soaked to the bone by rain. But Zacharias Smith? Out of everyone on the pitch that day? Honestly. 

Were this argument to be taken to its natural conclusion, even Draco Malfoy looked better in the rain than Zacharias Smith. Malfoy drifted like the shadow of a shark in the deep sea. When lightning struck, his silhouette flashed against the gray clouds, as haunting as the mystery of the Snitch’s present whereabouts. He loomed on his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, pointed features shrouded in deep concentration as he hunted for the Snitch amidst the heavy downpour. His jersey clung to him and revealed every contour of his torso as he leaned against the broom and lurked around the Quidditch pitch. 

Seeking required a keen eye and an intellect for scouting. Harry had an instinct for it, yet he still had to learn the finer art. He never spoke of it, at least not to Hermione, but she read enough in _Quidditch Through The Ages_ to realize that Seeking involved more than relaxing on a broom and waiting for the first glimmer of gold. It required strategy to deduce which areas of the pitch to prioritize for examination and a deep understanding of psychology to trick other Seekers with feints and false sightings. 

On the Quidditch pitch, Draco Malfoy came to life. When Draco Malfoy played Quidditch, he flew like he never knew people were capable of evil. Life consisted only of Quidditch’s fabrications, as simple as plucking a little golden ball out of the sky. He often vanished to lurk in the storm clouds and occasionally emerged to corkscrew dive with a hand outstretched for the Snitch, the Hufflepuff Seeker hot at his broom’s bristles. Then he would careen up and leave the Hufflepuff scrambling to avoid piercing her broomstick into the muddy grass. But he had never spotted the Snitch. A Seeker’s mind epitomized Quidditch. It made or broke the match — not only in points but in cunning, wit, and strategy. 

“Yes!” Parvati hopped and clapped her gloved hands ecstatically. 

Hermione jolted out of her revere and glared at Parvati’s startling exuberance. 

“Smith has caught the Quaffle, again,” narrated Luna. “Quite admirable, it’s raining nargles and plimbies... Oh, he’s scored! That’s ten points to Hufflepuff. That brings the total score to... Oh! Slytherin Seeker Draco Malfoy is flying very fast. Where’s he headed off to now?” 

Malfoy dove sharply across the full length of the pitch. His speed scattered the rain behind him like the tail of a comet. Hermione stomped her foot, irritated at Parvati’s distraction and herself for missing Malfoy bolt out of the clouds. The Hufflepuff Seeker hadn’t noticed him until Luna Lovegood’s commentary. She swung her broom around and raced to match pace with Malfoy, who began to outstretch a hand. 

He snapped around the broom, finesse and flying skill pivotal now. His hand slipped on the rain-slick broom. 

Lightning flashed and glinted off the Snitch, close enough for Hermione to see it. Students shrieked and hopped up to stand. Thunder cracked, but the ruckus from the crowd drowned it out. Malfoy flew across the field—and grew nearer and nearer. He was not merely chasing after the Snitch. He was flying right to her. His quick Nimbus shot out faster than ever. Throughout all these theatrics, he had been restraining himself. A thrill raced through Hermione, and she gasped, hands slowly rising and fingertips grazing her parted lips. 

Malfoy’s calculating gray eyes were locked on the Snitch. She remembered his doe-wide and horror struck eyes, pale as his once sickly skin, that witnessed Bellatrix Lestrange’s pupils blow in delight as she cast Cruciatus Curse after Cruciatus Curse on Hermione. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him then, a reflection of her terror, and neither could she now. But he shared little semblance to his past self. His mouth was quirked in a tiny smile, sharpening wickedly the closer he came to the Snitch. 

Screams and laughter rocketed through the stands. Parvati grabbed Hermione’s arm and hoisted her up to a stand, hopping and squealing and cheering for Draco Malfoy like she’d never been closely following Zacharias Smith the entire match. 

The Snitch whizzed past and stopped just in front of Hermione’s nose. She shrieked and instinctively flinched back. Her crossed eyes ached from looking at it. The golden ball jerked about as it flew in place, tiny wings knocking raindrops on Hermione’s nose. She felt like sneezing. 

Malfoy flew closer and closer, never slowing, not for a heartbeat of a moment. The bleachers quivered from the cacophonous shouting, laughter, and jumping of every student crackling with synergy. Parvati’s screams rose higher than humanly possible. Hermione’s eyes burned from not blinking. She wanted to witness the moment when he caught the Snitch. Her heart thudded from the thrill of it. She knew he would catch it. She knew Malfoy was talented enough to shoot back up into the sky once he did so and never crash into anyone. And she knew he wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again—Merlin, she knew it in her heart just like she knew he’d catch the Snitch. Yet her stomach was flipping over the thrill of it. What if he didn’t catch it? What if he were a second too slow at pulling up? 

Soaking wet and Quidditch-crazed, Draco was wickedly handsome, more so up close. Rain had darkened his light hair to a dirty blond and plastered it over his forehead. His lopsided grin accentuated his cheeks, reddened from the biting cold. Merlin, he was fit. All lean muscles, a Seeker’s lithe and strong body. Her heart fluttered. She ached, not in her stomach but somewhere deep in her belly. She dragged her gaze back up to those focused, calculating eyes that weren’t trained on her but the Snitch fluttering its wings in front of her nose. 

She ached to shove him against a wall and tear that jersey off him. Snatch that dark hair and pull his head back to expose his throat. Worship his neck until and long after he screamed louder and more crazed than everyone in the stadium. 

Her thoughts shocked her. 

She blinked, stunned, and almost missed the action playing out before her. 

Malfoy snatched the Snitch right in front of her nose and whipped his broom around parallel to the benches. Rain pelted her from the force of his turn, a wind whipping over her and knocking her hood back and releasing her frizzy, overflowing hair. It hid her face in curtains of thick and blinding waves. Cold air curled around her exposed head and neck. She saw only Draco. 

He raised the Snitch to eye level and smirked at it triumphantly. She shivered. 

Turning to her, his smirk softened. “Sorry about that, Granger.” 

Her hands lowered, her lips parted. No air entered her lungs. 

He quirked an eyebrow, looking her over from head to toe. 

She knew her hair must look atrocious. Which didn’t matter, but charms existed to prevent it from growing larger in the rain. Brightest witch, was she? Upon reading the weather report in the _Daily Prophet_ at breakfast, she should have applied a Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion designed exactly for this purpose. She still had some expired vials in her trunk from the Yule Ball in fourth year... 

A Slytherin Chaser and Beater flew over and yelled at Malfoy through the rain. He raised the Snitch high above his head and presented it to the entire school, his soft smile morphing into a grin. He leaned forward and drifted toward the Slytherin team. 

“Bloody hell!” cried Parvati. 

The girls spun around at the same time to face each other. 

Parvati released Hermione’s arm and clasped her hand. Her eyes sparkled with glee. “Bloody hell, Hermione! You simply _have_ to find him after the match. Snog the prat! Snog the prat for the good of Gryffindor!” 

Hermione bit off a maniacal laugh. “I will most certainly not!” Yet a thrill pooled in her abdomen. She murmured loud enough for Parvati to hear, “Should I?” 

“He fancies you!” Parvati yelled. “The players are _so_ into snogging after a match—and he _won the match_. He probably thinks he’s the King of Hogwarts now. Snog him, don’t be daft! And pay attention to it, tell me everything afterwards, yeah? Don’t forget, I know where you sleep,” she said, and added menacingly, “I know where you keep your homework.” 

Hermione flushed, cheeks hot against the bitter cold rain. No one had ever asked that from her. Ron and Harry weren’t interested in knowing anything about Viktor, and Ginny wanted to hear little to nothing about Ron. Parvati’s eyes brightened to the lightest Hermione had ever seen them all year. 

Hermione giggled, then slapped a hand over her mouth in shock at her giddiness, silencing herself. 

She was completely mad to even consider it. 

But her body was buzzing with electricity ever since Draco Malfoy had captured that Snitch and his power had flung back her hood. Her hair was heavy with rain now, flattened to thick waves. 

She closed her eyes and felt the raindrops soak her to the bone. She let the cheering, jumping, and Luna Lovegood’s bizarre commentary wash over her. The war had been hell and eighth year lonely without Harry and Ron by her side. Ginny had little time to chat after becoming Head Girl and Quidditch Captain. And now she clutched Parvati Patil, who encouraged her to snog Draco Malfoy and tell her every single sordid detail. Beyond mad. She felt more alive than ever before. 

She examined the Quidditch pitch and hunted down the Slytherin Seeker. A flock of green jerseys and black brooms swarmed him. 

Her lip curled into a smirk. 

She had a Seeker to catch. 

* * * 

Hermione waited for Draco close to the entrance of the Slytherin locker room, fidgeting under an aged oak tree that had scarlet and fiery orange leaves peppered with the lingering green remnants of summer. Its thick branches shielded her from the rain, but droplets smacked her head now and then. Her black boots stood together, avoiding little acorns scattered around her. When she first arrived to the locker room, she had waited outside the doors for an anxious minute before retreating to hide beneath the oak tree’s yawning branches. She stepped over white-petaled knot grass growing over the tree’s protruding roots, and the first _crunch_ spiked her heart rate. Thankfully, under her shoe, she found only bits of crushed acorns and not an innocent snail’s protective shell. 

Nerves kept her rooted beneath the tree. She willed herself to forget how foolish she was being. Draco Malfoy could never have fancied her earlier, and she was even more foolish to want that to be true. But he had been so carefree and exhilarated, and she had felt so, too. She had the strangest desire to see him. Even if he might only sneer at the sight of her. When Parvati Patil left for the warmth of Gryffindor Tower, she gave Hermione two uplifted thumbs and a grin so infectious that whenever Hermione conjured the memory of it, a nervous giggle erupted from her. 

A breeze trickled through the branches, flirting with the leaves like through the metal bars of wind chime. Faintly, she heard the cheering from every student in Hogwarts after the exciting match, but outside the Slytherin locker room she heard only the wind, rainwater falling in rivulets down tree bark, droplets splattering into deep puddles, her breath ghosting into mizzle and tickling her nose. The breeze lingered over Hermione, and her whole body twitched as the chill agonized her. The tree sheltered her from the rain, but her robes and damp hair were freezing. Drying herself off with magic had little use if she were just going to wait for Draco Malfoy beneath this dripping tree. 

She conjured a ball of blue flame for warmth and cradled it close. It reminded her of First Year when this little ball of fire felt like a magical epiphany. She supposed it had been. It had saved Harry, Ron, and herself from the Devil’s Snare, after all. 

Suddenly, the locker room door burst open. Hermione fidgeted and encouraged herself to seek out Draco. 

Slytherins trailed out in their school uniforms, dry and clean brooms slung over shoulders or held at their waists. Hermione stood on edge, watching every new pupil who stepped out, jumping at every blonde, but none had that striking platinum she sought. She huddled closer to the ball of blue flame, feeling even more ridiculous the longer Malfoy never appeared. 

Roars of laughter peeled out of the door, a group of boys following it with Draco leading the crowd. Her heart thudded hard. Nostalgia smacked her in the chest, from Fifth Year before he acquired the Dark Mark. His hair was slicked back with product, pointed features sharp and arrogant, and he wore the uniform impeccably, green and silver tie knotted elegantly at his throat. She squirmed, an oddly familiar pull below her belly, and accidentally stepped on a twig, snapping it. 

Draco Malfoy glanced over, mouth hitching once spotting her. He waved at the other boys and didn’t mind their protests when he bid them farewell for Hermione, of all people. 

He sauntered over to her, but up close, he wasn’t so arrogant. His gray eyes were foggy and cloudy, the brightness from his triumph on the Quidditch pitch shrouded by a storm in his head that Hermione glimpsed in the cones and rods of his eyes. Perhaps she was extrapolating, but she swore his eyes flickered with emotion, or less emotion, something, the second he stopped before her. 

He looked down. Hermione followed his lead. Her eyes burned from staring at the blue fireball for so long. 

He lifted a hand and trailed his fingertips over the flickering flame. Hermione gasped. 

“You’ll hurt yourself!” she warned. 

“Concerned for me, Granger?” He smirked. “Fancy that. I never knew you cared about what happened to me.” 

Her cheeks heated up. “I don’t.” 

He brought his hand closer to the flame. 

She hurried for her wand and pointed it at the fire, wordlessly making it disappear. 

“Don’t worry,” said Malfoy, as she pocketed her wand. “Your secret is safe with me.” 

She dug the toe of her shoe into the dirt, wishing she could to rub away that ache building in her. It grew deeper now that Malfoy was so close. 

But she had lied to him, hadn’t she? Of course, she cared. She had cared for some time now, ever since Malfoy Manor. She had locked eyes with those of a stranger, and he had haunted her ever since. Or perhaps she cared earlier. Harry had believed Malfoy to be the Heir of Slytherin, and she knew that to be ridiculous and was proven right. Yes, he had called her Mudblood and, yes, had become a Death Eater, but she had believed Harry’s suspicions to be ridiculous because Draco was all bark, no bite. Neither Harry nor Ron had been there when Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her. Neither of them had seen Draco’s fear—for her, the Mudblood. 

“I—” She snapped her mouth closed, teeth clacking, having spoken without thinking. 

Draco hitched his broom over his shoulder, his bicep flexing distractingly. He hooked up an eyebrow and peered down his nose at her. A swoop of longing heated her everywhere. Her toes curled. She could barely meet his gaze. 

And that irritated her. She refused to let Draco Malfoy have that effect on her. 

“Do you realize the amount of danger you placed everyone in with that catch of yours?” she admonished, fiercely believing every word flooding out of her lips without once thinking them through. He _had_ been careless. “First Years, just children, could have been injured. You’re lucky that Snitch had been in front of Parvati and me.” 

“It’s your hair, isn’t it?” chided Draco. He reached out and curled a finger through a damp wave. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. It looks like you’ve put a modicum of effort into it.” 

Flustered, Hermione couldn’t conjure an appropriate rebuttal to this absurd claim. “You notice when I fix up my hair, do you?” 

“Bit hard to miss, since you never do.” 

He released the curl and slipped his fingers through her wet hair, his warm palm on her neck. She felt him everywhere. Merlin, she felt him in her knickers. He rubbed his thumb over her ear, the sound of it vociferous and all-consuming. His heat trailed over her jaw, fingertips hotter than the blue flame. He traced a line across her throat; she swallowed against his fingertips. A ghost of a scar still lingered there over her throat from Bellatrix Lestrange’s cursed blade. 

“The scar. It’s faded,” she whispered. She spoke softly, not because she feared the memory, but because she feared that any sort of noise might scare him away and end his gentle touch. She still inexplicably felt it in her knickers, and every hair on her head stood on end. “It’ll take some time, but it’ll disappear.” 

“How long?” 

“By Christmas, I think.” 

He frowned, but that was all wrong on Draco Malfoy. He sneered and smirked and laughed, but never frowned. He hadn’t frowned when Bellatrix used her blade on Hermione. He hadn’t shown emotion in that way, only in his eyes. He knew Occlumency and had to be brilliant at it to prevent Voldemort from probing his mind, yet his emotions had been plain to see back then. 

Hermione swallowed. 

His touch paused. Her breath hitched. 

“Maybe I am,” she whispered, for herself now, “concerned for you.” 

“You shouldn’t be.” 

“Well, I am.” 

His mouth twisted, and he stepped away. But Hermione snatched his tie and pulled him toward her—closer than he’d been before. He stumbled from the surprise of her abrupt movement and crashed into her. The broom fell from his fingers, its handle blending into roots and sticks of the tree. He grabbed her shoulder to balance himself. 

“I think...” She licked her lips. “I think you’re concerned for me, too. I think you have been, for a while now.” 

His frown deepened. “Since Fourth Year,” he said. 

Hermione tightened her grip on his tie, pulling him closer to her. “You what?” 

“Since the Quidditch World Cup, when my father—” 

She prevented those memories of his father’s actions from surfacing, but she remembered Draco vividly. So arrogant against that tree, like he enjoyed the chaos, but he had warned Harry and Ron to hide her, the Muggleborn, away from those Death Eaters. 

She buried her face into his chest, breathing in deeply the smell of crisp, laundered clothing and a hint of cologne. She glimpsed nothing but the dark behind her eyelids. His startled hold on her softened. He enveloped her in a single-armed embrace, a hand sifting between her wet hair again and rubbing soft circles on her scalp. He sent every nerve in her body aflame. She lifted her head and found heavy gray eyes gazing at her. She wondered if memories haunted him. And if so, which ones. 

“Do you hate me?” she asked. When he didn’t reply, she said, “I don’t hate you. I don’t think I ever have.” 

His hand stilled in her hair. “Is it strange that I want to kiss you?” 

“A little.” 

He frowned. She couldn’t have that. 

She rose to the tips of her toes and pulled at his tie. When he leaned down to close the distance between them, lightning struck. Her eyes closed. His breath warmed her lips, and then his breath warmed her lungs, his lips soft against hers. She kissed him lightly, but his hold on her tightened, like a fierce hug, and heat struck to her core. 

She kissed him deeply, parting her lips and licking his. He shifted, nose brushing across hers and pressing against her cheek. When his tongue touched hers, her knees buckled, and he clutched her tightly to keep her upright. She disappeared into his kiss and the warmth and gentle caress of his tongue. They slipped into an easy, instinctive rhythm. She never thought kissing Draco Malfoy could come as easily as breathing, but it did, and somehow it felt like fate. 

Hermione and Draco were the few eighth year students taking their N.E.W.T.s. She still had the highest marks in all their lessons; he still had second best. She thought it funny that they fell into familiar dynamics even though he was retaking the year, but Hogwarts had only just been haunted by Death Eaters who preferred transforming the school into one massive torture chamber rather than a haven of pedagogy. He must not have achieved much learning. She wished to ask Draco about his seventh year. She remembered that scary night at the World Cup and that Draco had warned Harry and Ron to spare her. She remembered how every petty squabble and bullying nonsense between them over the years had been meaningless and forgotten entirely at Malfoy Manor. With Bellatrix torturing her and forcing Draco to watch, nothing trivial and inconsequential remained between them. She longed to open him up like a book in the Forbidden Section, dust the years off his pages and learn his truth. 

She pulled his tie, keeping him close. A little noise scratched his throat—a moan. Her eyes fluttered and that odd pull below her belly, the sensation in her knickers, intensified. She messed with the rhythm of their kissing tongues and nipped on his bottom lip, rolling it between her teeth. He moaned again, louder and audible. 

Draco’s hand burned along her back, skirting the curve at the base of her spine. She wished he’d squeeze her bum. She envisioned him laying on his back over her crimson and gold knitted blanket in her four-poster bed at Gryffindor Tower, his green tie hanging from the headboard, top buttons undone, styled hair a mess. His hands would slip past the elastic of her knickers and squeeze her bare buttocks. 

Her knees buckled. When she started sinking, he clutched her painfully. It tore a groan deep from her lungs. 

He smirked against her lips and broke apart. “Careful, Granger. Someone might hear.” 

She snapped the tie down, shutting him up, and smothered his smirk by shoving her tongue into his mouth. He wrapped an arm around her lower back, a hand snaking up along her spine and sifting his fingers into her hair. He tugged at the strands. She squirmed, wishing so ardently that he’d squeeze her bum, and sighed. 

“Hermione,” he whispered. 

Her mind spun. He spoke her name with reverence. She released his tie and laid her palms over his back, then gripped his arms, touched his cheeks, buried her fingers into his hair. She touched him everywhere, and yet it felt like she never touched him at all. She settled her hands over his shoulder blades and held him dear. 

He released her and cradled her face in his palms. Fingertips traced gentle lines over her cheekbones. He feathered kisses over her eyebrows, her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her jaw, her chin. Her lips buzzed from the memory of him. 

No one had ever kissed her so. Viktor and she had clumsily laughed through their kisses, nervous and excited. Ron and she had kissed largely in the moment, adrenaline pumping in their veins and drowning out emotion. But Draco kissed her like he not only got something physical out of it but emotional, too. 

He stopped kissing her and buried his face in her neck. 

Without Draco’s kisses overwhelming her, Hermione grew distracted by the rain and cold. The earth beneath her feet upturned her. 

“Draco,” she said, and wished he’d look at her, and yet was so very glad that he wasn’t. “You can’t snog other girls.” _What in Merlin’s name am I saying?_ “I swear, if you snog someone...” 

“What about Weasley?” was his muffled reply, lips brushing against her neck. 

“Ron? Ron—he’s not my boyfriend. It was just in the moment!” 

Draco pulled away from her, a chilly breeze licking at her exposed neck. She missed his warmth. When those gray eyes met her dead on, now full of a playfulness she’d never thought him capable of directing at her, she missed his warmth even more. But her burning cheeks made up for it. 

“Ron and I, we bicker so much. It’s exhausting.” 

“And we don’t bicker?” 

Hermione’s mouth started moving on its own accord. “We actually agree on many things.” 

Draco tipped his chin and peered down at her. 

“Harry in—Potions—sixth year—you were annoyed, and...” Hermione quieted, flushing. 

“I’m always annoyed by Potter.” 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” 

“It’s a little funny that you believe you have authority over who I can and cannot snog. If you want to be my girlfriend, say so.” 

Hermione’s mouth snapped open and closed. “You’re unbelievable!” 

Draco hummed, then stepped away. He laid out a hand and summoned the Nimbus into his palm, brushing off the dirt and whisking the broom over his shoulder. He smirked at her as he walked away. “Don’t worry, Granger,” he said. “I’ll be yours and yours only.” 

She dashed after him, then halted, horrified at herself. 

“And you’ll be mine and mine only,” he said, a little too sure of himself. 

He turned his back to her and waved farewell. Her treacherous eyes admired the breadth of his shoulders and his elegantly billowing robes. “If you want to stalk me again,” said Draco, “I’ll be at the library tonight.” 

A spike of euphoria thrilled her. “I wasn’t stalking you!” 

He never replied. 

She watched him until he entered Hogwarts Castle, flustered and warm all over beneath her tree. A wind hit her, and she hastily conjured a ball of blue flame. She remembered Draco Malfoy tracing the flames with his fingertips. Biting down a smile, Hermione followed his path to Hogwarts Castle. Not even the realization that Parvati Patil awaited every single detail could dampen her bliss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first HP fic and Dramione. Hope you enjoyed it! :) [Moodboard here! ♥](https://mydearestprongs.tumblr.com/post/628089815683973121/catching-the-seeker-by-earlgreyhot)


End file.
